The River

This poem was inspired by the first few chapters of Genesis.

I stand

And gaze across the vast expanse

My sight obscured

By withered tree with barren branch

O perfection

You were lost with one selfish grasp

One bite of flesh

A passing off

Shame

The Mighty River 

Crossed

Tales long told

Will not let us forget

That grave mistake:

Pride

Which drove us from the glory;

But I have heard how Eden grows

With arms and legs stretched forth

A Mighty River flows

To bear refreshment to the land

Porous veins pulsing liquid life into the earth

And on it’s banks each leaf unfurls

Like emerald strand

From dust all beauty was unveiled

From breath all life has taken form

As God exhaled!

But here I stand

I cannot cross that Mighty Flow

Its current pushes me away

With icy hands, restrains my feet

And holds me in my stance

My heart longs for what it cannot have

There is no peace

As all sprang forth from dust

Now dust we breathe

Consuming us

Until to dust 

We go

O Ancient Mother of all life

Your one mistake

Caused you to bear a curse so great

And through that curse

The searing pain and sweating brow

You bore my mothers

Who bore me

It passes down

To waters rushing forth

Tumbling stones

Smoothing stones 

That line the Mighty River’s bed

I cannot cross

I weep for all that’s lost

Rotted frames of pulp

Weathered stones, illegible

Clouds of dust long scattered by the wind

Nothing can be held within the hand

My sin destroys

Pulverizes my own heart

Breaking down

Passing down

Tumbling down the riverbed

The water

Covering

Washing clean

Polishing 

To glass-like touch

Transforming dust to beauty

Just like on that Third Day

When earth began to breathe 

That day when Hope began to breathe again

I stand beside the Mighty Flow

The distant shore

Obscured

I cannot cross

My pride, my shame

So cumbrous

I lay it down

This flesh, these bones

Surrender like the stones

To the mighty flow 

Of grace 

That pulls me in

To the nature of the waves

Enfolding me

Tumbling

Slowly 

Churning

Changing 

Everything that waits beneath

This Poem was inspired by a sculpture that I viewed in Paris at Musee D'Orsay which deeply moved me. It is of St. John the Baptist as a child, by sculptor Jean Dampt.

Expectant   

                                                                               

Though years have passed

And gathered up to centuries

Advancing time won’t dare to touch

This cherub face

No weary lines of pain to trace

No bending back from burdens borne

You wait

Your stillness makes me wonder

At what’s inside your marble heart

An ancient ice or coals so white from blazing fire?

What keeps you here, petitioning

With upturned eyes, untiring?

There is no furrow on your brow

No strain in folded hand

But patiently you wait

With trust so pure,

Abiding

Through blackest night and tempest strong

Through fainting heat and coldest solitude

Your posture, though of stone

Truer by far than any man of flesh

I’ve ever known.

And while no words have even passed through your sweet lips

Your silence speaks abundance

I linger at your side for but a moment

Yet how I long to stay

And ask, O Child,

Please teach me how to pray!

A rose for the month of June in which I was born, and a poem to honour growing older, and embracing it gracefully!

Silver                                                                                                                        

A silver strand

A precious chain round neck adorns

Or stories scrawled in graphite on a page

Of days when gold out shone them all

Those summers spent in splendid rays

Carefree days

Windblown, sun-bleached gold

Of times when warmest brown was tied and wrapped in warmest wool

Strands of brown loosed by breezes catching flakes of falling snow.

Then with the years came fears of losing bright,

Of fading dim

But silver is the hue of brave

Of swords forged in the flame

Sharpened strong on stone

It is the palate of the wise

A book that only time can write

Of places seen and lessons learned

It is the tone of currency

Of mines producing precious

And long refining bringing forth of higher worth

These silver strands not covered up

But worn with pride and confidence

For all that’s good and beautiful takes time.

The Gardener (Stream of Conciousness)

His spade cuts the ground fresh earth, turned crumbling separating dark and loamy

A worm a sign of healthy soil and then the pressing of the seeds those tiny things hard and dry and dead pressing into earths flesh and hoping something will come forth

His fingers are covered with dirt staining prints and under nails and pushing into treads on the bottom of the sole

And when those hands are washed and shoes come off the night comes, the days and nights go by, sun up and down clouds crying on the ground which breaks the shell and green comes forth

He walks again along the rows, pulling plucking those wandering twisted things that choke and overwhelm the tender shoots and careful where he steps so not to crush the newly born
That new and tender grows taller with leaves that reach and soak up light and air as days grow warmer and days grow longer
He ties the stem to a stick, a guide that proves strong when the heavens let loose of rain and wind and sun beats down to wither and dry
Soon flowers show their faces, blossoms that promise a certain harvest and bees land to gather and spread and pollenate and with the bees other pestilence, because its not too late for all to be lost and then all is lost so careful dirt pressed fingers pick off the unwanted beetles and crush them with a dirt pressed heal

And suddenly one day that plant is no longer just a shoot or tender sprout but a woody strong and tall bush that bears crazy and delicious and juicy in abundance and he plucks with tender care and always amazement and great appreciation for all that’s gone into this glorious producing this wonderful ripeness that must be completely taken in and enjoyed fully because it’s a season, they always pass and he knows and in gentleness he frees the fruit and savours

But then the plant no longer bears and the leaves turn down and curl and brown and all that once flourished now droops and reaches for the earth the soil from which it came so he takes the spade and it cuts the ground cuts through roots with crack and snapping pulling all that once was green and living back to that place, that darkness from where it all started, the birthplace the death place for seasons come and seasons go and he knows and he buries and waits for spring

The most spectacular world of snowflakes!

One of the greatest adventures I went on this winter was the search for snowflakes from behind my camera lens. I have never experienced anything like it before - it's very addictive, and rewarding! Click on the photos to see their original size.

Macro

To stroll the silent, mossy way
With toes unhindered by the shoes
Of duty and direction.
To fall beneath the blades of dewy grass and see the source,
The sheath that holds these swords in place;
I choose.
To close my eyes and really know
The way the breeze moves on my skin.
To smell the sweetened melodies of
Roses blooming, Lilacs bursting fair.
No longer will I blindly pass.
Too many flowers bloom
For eyes consumed with lesser things
Then fade unseen.
But I will stop, 
Look!
Come with me and jump into the flaming throats of lilies,
Together ride down amber slides of sunshine,
Dance to winged songsters chorus staged above.
Gaze into this dragon’s emerald eyes!
Yes, this is where my spirit is alive!